The opening of TEMPEST, the sixth story in the Soldier Chronicles series

 

(The jacket cover is a mock up and may not reflect the final design.)

Fishguard, February, 1797: HMS Britannia anchors off the Pembrokeshire coast in the dying days of winter. Two armed companies of soldiers row ashore, led by the charismatic American, Colonel William Tate. They are met with the local Welsh Volunteer regiment who, despite the suspicious locals, have been expecting them.
 

But one man has been secretly shadowing a small flotilla bound for the same destination. Major Lorn Mullone, a shrewd Irishman employed by the British government, considers that their arrival is more than fortuitous.

But is this just a mere coincidence or perhaps a ruse de guerre? Mullone has to uncover the truth and, with every step of the way, he must tread carefully if he is to survive.

The night was calm and moonlit. Silver touched the limestone and sandstone Pembrokeshire coastline. A small wind came from the glimmering Irish Sea, but it brought no malice.

That was when the warship was sighted a mile off the peninsula near Fishguard, a small fishing village nestled in a valley where the River Gwaun meets the sea. By dawn, when the sky was still grey, the land was grey, and a thin grey mist hovered like fallen wisps of cloud, the ship reached the harbour's anchorage. Six boats were dropped into the cold water and rowed ashore. Redcoats manning a small coastal fort high above the harbour's bluff that over looked Cardigan Bay watched them intently. The stone fortress that protected Fishguard had well-maintained guns, but none of them erupted in warning or threat, because HMS Britannia was expected.

Major Mansel Yates of the Fishguard Volunteer Infantry observed the boats approach through the dirty lens of a weather-beaten telescope. 'They are lucky this morning,' he said with a cheerful voice to the two men flanking him. One was a captain with dark eyes and sharp eyebrows, the other was a sergeant with a chest like a blacksmith. 'Lucky indeed,' Yates continued, momentarily staring up at the pearly glow  in the sky that indicated where the sun was. Britannia was three days late, and Yates had put their delay due to the fierceness of the Irish Sea. 'But then, Colonel Tate was always a fortunate and propitious soul. Did I tell you about the time we ambushed the rebels at Charleston back in '80?'

'Yes, sir,' the captain responded uninterestedly.

They watched the long oars row the vessels closer to shore. Figures in the leading boat were visible at the foredeck and gunwales. They stared back at the coast, where smoke rose from chimneys and lights flickered from houses, warehouses and other trading depots.

'The man's a rogue,' Yates continued of his infatuation, 'but you'll not meet a finer soldier, nor a finer gentleman.'

The captain grunted, thinking the major was talking like a besotted fool.

'Lucky,' Yates repeated. He was in his early forties, of average height, a build more of fat than muscle and had a ruddy-cheeked face. It was a genial face with small, bright blue eyes. He had been an officer of the Volunteers for three years, having been invalided out of the army at the end of the war with the Americans. He returned to his beloved home to help manage his family's estate, which gave him three hundred acres of land when his father died seven years ago. Despite his wound, he had been shot in the left arm leaving him with partial feeling and weakness, he was delighted to be offered the majority.

'Strange colour of their coats, sir?' the sergeant rasped, squinting down at the boats through the smear of light.

'Colour, Sergeant Rosser?' Yates glanced at him and then turned back to the crafts. He adjusted the lens, wiped water from them and then trained the scope for a closer look. 'Dark red, perhaps,' he allowed.

'Looks like brown or black to me, sir,' Rosser observed suspiciously.

'We'll soon find out, won't we?' Yates, unable to truly tell because of the haze, smiled in wonderment and snapped shut his glass. The Fishguard Volunteers wore a short red coat faced white with light infantry wings, white breeches and a black slouched hat turned up on the left. A green plume and a white band with the words 'Ich Dien' German for 'I serve', a motto used by Welsh regiments serving King George III were stitched in black. Yates, like Vickers, wore a thick coat over his scarlet jacket, kidskin gloves and oilskin-coated cocked hats. 'Captain Vickers, with me. Sergeant Rosser, I want you and your section as honour guard.'

Rosser looked blank. 'Honour guard, sir?'

Yates, emollient and softly spoken, smiled again. Moisture on the oilskin gave the hat a silver sheen. 'Of course, sergeant,' he said. 'We have honoured guests to greet.'

'Yes, sir,' Rosser answered but flashed Vickers a sceptical look.

The three men descended the parapet steps and strode back through the courtyard. The two officers then climbed up onto saddled horses and trotted up along the single track, which snaked down the isthmus towards the small port. Delicate threads of fog whirled around the horses' legs as they passed through it.

As the boats' keels scraped aground, the sailors leaped down to steady them and a tall officer wearing a thick grey cloak clasped at his throat gracefully stepped down onto the rushing shore. His tall boots sank into the soft yellow sand, but he managed to stay upright when a wave foamed white and forceful at his feet. Yates and his men were waiting. He went down to meet the newcomer. The Volunteers in their red serge jackets and bright white crossbelts, formed behind, stood rigidly to attention. The two officers saluted each other and, beaming like old friends, clasped each other's hands.

'By God, it's good to see you again, Bill,' Yates said with genuine affection. 'I should rightly be saying, sir.'

Tate dismissed that last comment with an energetic wave of his hand. 'I'll have none of that, Mansel, old friend,' he said with the drawl of South Carolina. 'How long has it been? Twelve years?'

'Fourteen years,' Yates reproached with a firmer grip. The soldiers were disembarking the boats in good order; the bosuns and the sergeants were bellowing orders behind them.

Tate shook his head at the number of years gone by. He was forty-four years old, of slender build, with pale eyes and a long face. 'Too long for friends not to see each other,' he said, then remembered something. 'You look well. How's your arm?'

Yates was pleased he remembered. 'It goes numb from time to time, and I have never been able to get full use from it, but I was lucky to keep it, so I can't complain.'

'Damned lucky,' Tate agreed.

'How was the journey?'

The American took off his cocked hat, made damp by the mist, and ran a hand through greying hair. 'Dolphins saw us in, there were grey seals on the rocks and Captain Le Haillan thought he saw a whale off the cape,' Tate said, smiling with white teeth. 'I feel like we've already been welcomed.'

Yates laughed and then heard a polite cough from over his shoulder. He half turned to see Vickers waiting keenly to be introduced. 'Of course, my apologies,' the major said, acknowledging his subordinate with a nod. 'Allow me to introduce Captain Dewi Vickers. A most able company commander and one I am extremely proud to have serve with me.'

Vickers gave Tate a sharp salute. 'Major Yates has told me of your gallantry, sir. I am honoured to make your acquaintance.'

Tate seemed awkward with the praise. He fiddled with his hat before placing it back on his head. 'I hope I don't disappoint you, Captain.'

'Not at all, sir,' Vickers said briskly. 'Major Yates often spoke of your capability in dealing with the rebels of that ghastly conflict. Myself, I have not seen action, so it's rewarding to know and converse with those men with experience. I have a great respect for men like you, sir. I hope to learn from you.'

Tate pursed his lips and gave a short nod.

'There is one matter...' Vickers' voice trailed away.

'Yes?' Tate said, raising an eyebrow.

Vickers bobbed his head with appreciation at being allowed to continue. 'I was just wondering about your colours, sir.'

'Colours?'

'Your coat and that of your men appear to be dark brown, sir, not regulation red,' Vickers said in a helpful tone.

'You're very perceptive, Captain,' Tate remarked flatly. 'Unfortunately, our coats were supplied incorrectly dyed. The regiment's former colonel still bought them, and we've not been supplied with replacements. However, my men have all regulation necessaries, their muskets have all been oiled and their flints are screwed and well-seated. You'll not see a finer legion. Though I do see a change that will soon allow us to,' he paused briefly, 'transform our colours, as you so adequately put it.' He finished with a charismatic smile.

Vickers wondered why he said 'legion', but decided not to press the matter for the moment. 'Very good, sir.'

'And now I must insist we share a drink,' Yates implored. 'Your men are welcome to billet at the fort. It's a devil of a trek up, but there is plenty of room. How many men do you have?' He craned to see past Tate.

'Two hundred.'

Yates's cheerfulness flagged. He heard Vickers groan behind. 'We might struggle a little to accommodate. There's a disused farm nearby. The majority of your men can use the granary or share the fields with my men. We have our own tents.'

'My men haven't been issued tents, so we'll use the farm.'

'We are a little thin on the stores, but we have some bread, salted meat and ale.'

'No need to worry yourself,' Tate said cheerfully, 'we have brought our own rations. I've tobacco and a case of fine brandy to share with you and your officers later. I wanted to take my rogues out on a manoeuvre first. We've been at sea too long and need to stretch our legs. I don't want my men to get goddamned soft, and this fine morning will be perfect.'

'Very good,' Yates answered genially.

'Perhaps you will join us?' Tate asked him, though to Vickers it seemed like a demand.

'Much obliged, Bill.'

'Good.' Tate turned, nodded and two of his officers stepped forward. 'This is Captain Le Haillan,' he said, indicating a tall man with pale features and a hint of red hair on his face. The captain immediately gave a smart salute.

'Captain,' Yates said.

'Le Haillan?' Vickers said, frown lines creasing his brow. 'Sounds French.'

There was an embarrassed silence, punctuated by the sounds of Tate's men still disembarking and forming up on the sand. The soldiers wore outdated peaked leather caps with falling horsehair manes, a headdress that light infantry or dragoons wore during the American War of Independence.

Le Haillan's mouth twitched. 'My ancestors,' he said with a crisp English accent, 'were Huguenots.'

Yates coughed to cover his embarrassment at Vickers's impolite question, to which the captain seemed to be oblivious.

Tate glowered. 'This is Lieutenant Marrock, another able officer under my command.'

Marrock was in his early twenties, with chestnut hair and a freckled complexion. He flicked his gaze from the Welshmen and up to the village with sullen eyes.

When Tate's peculiarly dressed browncoats were ready, a contingent of sun-darkened sailors carrying chests and barrels of powder began to haul them up the beach until Yates managed to commandeer an old cart used to collect driftwood and other debris. A group of fishermen watched the spectacle. Yates waved cheerfully at them. One of them had heard Tate speak and spat to show his contempt.

'Forgive Old Griffin,' Yates exclaimed. 'His brother Gethin was killed by American privateers back in '79. The Black Prince bombarded the village after we refused to pay their outrageous ransom. People were killed, a couple of homes were destroyed and St Mary's Church was damaged, but we stood firm against the damned Jonathans!' Yates remembered who he was talking to and muttered an embarrassed chuckle.

'You Welsh are a resolute breed,' Tate remarked stridently, unaffected by the derogatory term for American pirates. 'I take my hat off to you and your people, Mansel.' Tate touched his forelock at the fisherman, but the craggy-faced Welshman offered a black scowl and muttered a curse.

More folk watched the soldiers with suspicious eyes. Yates decided to stroll ahead with Tate as the redcoats and browncoats trailed behind. The climbing path from the harbour was edged with thick tussocks of grass and shouldered with wind-shredded gorse. Cobwebs made silver by damp weather sparkled in the clumps of purple heather. Tate let his eyes wander across the glittering bay, where colonies of razorbills and guillemots nested in the sea cliffs. Many villagers still watched them; the beach was thick with fishermen, nets, boats and fish traps. A salty breeze rushed up the cliff-face, almost knocking Le Haillan's hat from his head. The captain repositioned it and held on to it firmly.

'There's a kittiwake that visits us,' Yates said after a few minutes of silence. 'Aye, he comes down from the embrasures, and Corporal Pritchard feeds it scraps. Aye, that what he calls the bird, Scraps.'

Tate smiled at Yates's enthusiasm for small talk and looked up to the fort. It was a dark shape against the horizon, half-hidden by the rocky ledges, its rampart's top edged with a flickering line of orange to show that braziers burned in the courtyard.

Yates saw his gaze. 'It was constructed back in '81 after the attack. It certainly keeps the bay clear of enemies.'

'Has there been another attack?'

'No,' Yates admitted, 'but it keeps us safe. Just the thought of the guns deterring enemies gives us a great deal of assurance.'

'How many guns does it have?'

'Eight nine-pounders. Manned by a contingent of Woolwich gunners stationed here.'

Tate did not know where Woolwich was, presuming that it was a place nearby, and so said nothing. The two men exchanged news of past friends, births, marriages and deaths.

Vickers touched the spurs to his horse's flanks to get closer to the two men. He had tried to converse with Marrock, but the morose Irishman promised poor conversation. There was something about Le Haillan that troubled Vickers. He couldn't put his finger on it, so he ignored the too well-dressed Englishman. Maybe that was what bothered him. Days or weeks at sea, and the captain appeared without a stitch out of place. That was odd in Vickers's books.

The ground levelled and the path became flanked with tall grassy embankments. The men's boots echoed loudly in the narrow space.

'And is it true that our old friend William Knox resides in the county?' Tate asked.

'Yes,' Yates replied. 'He has estates over in Slebech and Llanstinan. His son commands two companies here and the two over at Newport.'

'He's done well for himself,' Tate said of the father, and Vickers noted a slight sourness with that comment.

Yates must have noticed the tartness too, for he gave his customary chuckle. 'He has, Bill.'

'What's his son like?'

'Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Knox is... he is a...' Yates struggled to find adequate words. He sighed. 'He is a young man,' he said despairingly, hoping that answered it all.

'I look forward to meeting him,' Tate said patiently.

'Indeed,' Yates said rather nervously, which Vickers also noticed. 'Would you like tea, Bill?'

'I would, thank you. I find that I can't function without a cup,' Tate declared.

You Americans wouldn't have any if it weren't for us, Vickers thought mischievously.

The soldiers marched into the stronghold as redcoats watched them from behind the moss-and salt-stained walls. Tate allowed his men twenty minutes' rest. Tea was brewed, provisions were eaten and pipes were lit, but the assiduous colonel took half his men east towards Newport, where dawn blushed the sky a pale pink. Le Haillan and Marrock went northwest, where the land was the highest, up and along the coastal trail past Goodwick, which was a hamlet of fishermen's cottages, and where giant rocky prominences dominated the fields and farmsteads.

Yates went with Tate.

 *

 

A single horseman cantered along the road, which was, in truth, more of a farm track, as the wolf-light of dawn slowly bruised with colour. He slowed the beast down to a trot and then halted it with a steady pull of the reins. The horse obeyed and snorted, its flanks shimmering with sweat in the hazy light. The rider patted its muscled neck fondly and climbed out of the saddle. Glancing over his shoulder, he tied the reins to a solitary winter-bare oak tree. A single branch lay on the ground, snapped off from recent fierce winds. He threaded his way down through lichen-haunted stones and grassland interspersed with rock samphire, English stonecrop and wild thyme. The sword hanging from his left hip clanked and rattled. His boots slid on wet grass, but he kept his balance. The waves crashed white against the headland's protruding necklace of rocks, but turning east, they caressed the shore, leaving gentle kisses before rushing back from the arched caves and stony coves.

It was then, above wild tangles of gorse and thinning palls of fog, that he saw masts like inky scratches against the skyline. He edged closer; the smell of the sea filled his nostrils. There were three ships. The first was a large, square-rigged, three-masted frigate; the other two vessels were a corvette and a lugger, each with two masts and fore-and-aft rigged sails. The sails billowed dirty-white against the deep blue-grey of the ocean.

The man produced a telescope from a lard-smeared haversack. He aimed it towards the ships, steadied the long brass tubes with his gloved hands and it took a moment to bring the lenses into focus. His name was Lorn Mullone. He had fought in the American wars and had spent nigh on twenty years watching enemies and deciphering their moves and strategies. And it was his experience and skills that had brought him to this nondescript part of the country, knowing that their appearance here was of no insignificance.

     It was quiet except for the sound of the sea and the screeching calls of cormorants and fulmars swooping and diving below.

Mullone studied the ships for some time.